


Untethered

by j9ac9k



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, Bad Communication, Dissociation, Episode: s03e21 The Die Is Cast, M/M, No Communication, oblique references to Garak's depressing backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27075286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j9ac9k/pseuds/j9ac9k
Summary: Set at the end of The Die is Cast.Dr. Bashir is very, very pleased that Garak has made it back from his mission safely. Garak is less so.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	Untethered

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [ Yet Another Thing ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27031231) by [ the_last_dillards ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_last_dillards/pseuds/the_last_dillards) . Definitely worth a read if you, like me, enjoy fics that make you sad.

“Oh, poor supercilial ridge,” the doctor brushed his hand very gently across the cut in Garak’s brow, “shall I kiss it better then?”  
“Kiss it better?” He thought. “How strange, what good would that do? Surely not part of standard human medical practice.”  
Only, it wasn’t really a question, and hands were quickly replaced by lips. The doctor so close now that he swam out of focus, the blue of his uniform filling Garak’s field of view completely on his left side. Garak felt more than heard the doctor’s happy hum, resonating in his throat, just next to the carotid artery that pulsed, quicker now, against Garak’s own cheek.

He was sat on the bio-bed in the Defiant’s sick-bay where up until a second ago Dr. Bashir had been tending to the wounds he had incurred in escaping the Romulan warbird. The chain of cause and effect that stretched between being punched by Odo and now being kissed by Dr. Bashir was a jumble of missing links. Sounds and voices bounced around in his mind instead. He should have stayed by Tain’s side. Should not have betrayed him. Should have died beside him. The two of them. Together.

But here he was instead, still alive, and in the sickbay, with Dr. Bashir resting his lips gently on his forehead. “Doctor,” he wanted to say, “Tain is dead.” He did not. 

Lithe hands grasped his thighs, thumbs rubbing circles, moving slowly upwards, and by instinct he gripped Bashir’s wrists to stop any further exploration. He felt the doctor still a moment, and looked up to see Bashir’s worried face, as he drew away slightly, although he still stood between Garak’s legs, his front pressed up hard against the edge of the bio-bed.  
Oh, that look was bad, his reeling mind supplied. Can’t have that, won’t do to upset the doctor. 

Relaxing his grip on Bashir’s wrists slightly, he angled his head up, and captured the Doctor’s lips in a kiss, smothering the worried question he saw forming there. That was all the encouragement Bashir needed, kissing back insistently. For the better half of a moment Garak lost himself in the hot pressure of the doctor’s mouth on his own, the scent of the man enveloping him. “How ever did we get here?” he wondered absentmindedly, “we really must do this again sometime.” And then the doctor’s right hand, released now from Garak’s grip, brushed painfully against a still unhealed cut on his hip, and the bottom fell out of his world once again as he was dragged back to reality. 

“Tain is dead.”

Dr. Bashir’s other hand snaked upwards, caressing his neck ridge. 

“He is dead because of me.” 

He felt the doctor’s tongue push in against his own, and angled his head back slightly, letting Bashir deepen the kiss. 

“And I don’t know what will become of me. Of any of us.” 

He moved his hands unconsciously from where they sat on his lap to lay them flat against Bashir’s stomach. He felt the hot, human body, against the palms of his hands, even through the heavy woolen uniform. In his mind memories and imagined scenarios played themselves over and over, bifurcating and running together, and all ending in the destruction of the Romulan warbird. Of Tain and of any slim hope he may have had of redemption. 

Garak moved his hands slowly, methodically. One spreading out to grasp the doctor’s hip, the other moving lower, palming at Bashir through the fabric of his uniform pants. With a detachment born from practice he noted each one of Bashir’s moans and moved his hand, a little harder, a little softer, in turn. Elsewhere, he was pleading with Tain to leave the ship, save himself. And elsewhere, still, he was pleading with Uncle Enabran to _please, let him out_. This was, of course, before he learned that to cry about it would only prolong the punishment. Bashir shuddered against his hand, letting out what could only be described as a whine. It certainly said something about his background that the Garak of the here and now could make love with muscle memory alone. 

Suddenly, Bashir broke the kiss and reached down, very gently lifting Garak’s hand off of him. Garak felt all at once the cold air of the room, noticed it against his now tender lips. Bashir let out a shuddering breath and smiled down at Garak, eyes big, pupils blown out, tongue darting nervously over lips that were flushed and swollen. 

“Not here, yeah? Later. Back at the station.” Bashir lifted Garak’s hand to his own face, resting a kiss on the heel of his hand. Garak could feel the shaky inhales against his palm as the doctor worked to steady his breathing, “We’ve got lots of time.” 

Oh. Back on the station. 

“I was worried about you.” Whispered against his palm 

In all his calculations he’d never imagined returning to the station. 

“More worried than I think I should be, really.” Said like a guilty secret. 

Could he imagine it now? Returning to the ruins of his shop. Resuming his role of the plain and simple tailor. Smiling through cold days and colder nights without even the faintest hope of return to warm him. 

“I’m so glad you’re back.”


End file.
